


Just Say That You Want Me

by Junaril



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Femslash, Mutual Pining, Suit Kink, Tension and longing, talking about color is bisexual activity, two rich bisexuals talking about suits and colors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:01:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22166071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Junaril/pseuds/Junaril
Summary: "Tell me more about your colors," Thuringwethil inquires, putting the glass to her lips.Lúthien cocks an eyebrow. "My colors?""Your wardrobe."If more is too personal, Thuringwethil adds in mind.For now.
Relationships: Lúthien Tinúviel/Thuringwethil
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	Just Say That You Want Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [swilmarillion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/swilmarillion/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Follow You Down](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5002765) by [swilmarillion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/swilmarillion/pseuds/swilmarillion). 



> For Swil, who wrote the masterpiece that is Follow You Down and the amazing characterizations, among which is our best girl Thuringwethil. Thanks for screaming with me about this ship and any ship. I wish I were efficient enough to shower you in gifts. This short AU fic to your AU fic may be a start.
> 
> Title from Tusk by Fleetwood Mac

The afternoon lingers in its last few hours until it's going to snap into evening and a darkness pierced with city lights, both arriving faster and earlier with each day. Golden sunlight shines still determined and is making its way between the skyscrapers, the occasional ray managing to touch the ground and uncovered skin. 

Thuringwethil basks in the warmth while she leisurely strolls beside the window displaying mannequins, elegantly dressed and drenched in yellow lamplight themselves. She regards her reflection showing her suit of coordinating jacket and skirt, her heels that give her posture and height and the threatening punctuated sound that announce her presence and her intention by pace and force. 

She takes in the isles and shelves of cotton, silk and synthetic blouses, glossy and matt suits, blazers lone in their distinctiveness or with matching trousers or skirts, classic pieces and determinate color palettes of the newest collection. Tobacco, bottle green, and charcoal shine in pronounced and thick twill weave, velvet, and jacquard. 

For a second Thuringwethil contemplates on indulging in something more prominent, but her eyes snap to the nearest pieces in black. With the right fabric, qualitatively produced, black makes her stand out discretely more than any other color would among the suits of lesser value and fitting at her workplace, and ultimately that is more. Her status is seen and processed unwittingly, and no one but herself is aware of the visual information that hits them. 

Black has exactly the effect she wants. She prides herself on her knowledge both on words and anything that substitutes them, on her assessment of herself and her environments, in the workplace, with subordinates, in the courtroom, with adversaries. 

She could make use of another jet-black pair. 

Thuringwethil assumes only one of her coworkers to have an uncanny instinct in regards of appearance as well. The others remain blissfully oblivious - 'blissfully' being the word they would use. She foresees the banter that would ensure about the topic. The formula for their usual dialogues is well known to her. She would receive some mockery for her knowledge on such things of course, but once realization seeps into their minds, they would reassess not only her span of awareness but also their own. Instant outer defiance, belated inner change. Perhaps there will even be a rekindled fear and admiration for her. They are her best friends after all, and she only has the best in mind for them.

Another jacket catches her eye. The fabric - coarse. The silhouette and angles - sharp and threatening. The lining is shining grey and smooth to her touch. She turns her wrist, puts the back of her hand against it, then back on the fabric outside. Her skin responds satisfied. Thuringwethil envisions the occasions this would be suited for, imagines wearing it over a particular dress of hers. How it would contradict the jacket's asperity with its plain smooth elegance and how those visualized mixed messages would sow confusion wherever she went. 

She indulges in quiet gratuitous contemplation. Fabric is only felt. There are no nerves to bristle at sensation, no eyes to lay on yours in return, no breath or heartbeat to show response. With skin on skin both feel.

Thuringwethil sets her eyes on black hair flowing down a dark jacket. A woman in a pantsuit is framed by suits of alike shade. Her hair is open yet orderly and sways with precision along every one of her movements. 

A faint burst of envy bolts into her mind and out again as she composes herself. It might not have been jealousy after all, she considers. 

With a practiced movement of her head Thuringwethil lets one slim strand of hair fall down over her face and her eyes shoot upwards. The woman has moved, standing now by a mannequin presenting a slim eye-catching suit. She holds one of its sleeves, her thump running over the fabric. Thuringwethil eyes her profile, perceives the light flicking of her eyelids and the slight tuck at her lips. Her posture is intriguing, the matching jacket and pants convey both authority and flexibility. She looks elegant, poised for work, but also prepared for adventure, or simply - _ready_.

Her fingers glide down one shiny lapel, feeling its edges, from its top to bottom. And Thuringwethil watches. 

Thuringwethil's sense of self-awareness tugs at her mind, too faint and delayed to her liking. She feels her lips at the beginning of a smirk, too late to have stopped it from happening. She lowers her head again and puts her focus on what she came for. Moving to a section of ink black jackets and matching trousers, she suddenly feels the need to fill her wardrobe with pantsuits. 

Thuringwethil is restless, out of the corner of her eye she discreetly follows _her_ again.

The ringing of her phone makes her look down again. The display shows an adversary of one of her less pleasant legal cases. Not a second passes and he's on the other line. She's a creature of work, and combining it with her time for leisure is no clash of interests at all. Thutingwethil listens intently, as she proceeds to view intently. She notices him reducing formalities, slipping right through a barely acceptable tone into a rushing pace. Her voice remains calm, with the clank of her heels in her strolling pace as her rhythm.

"You are cold, lady," he proclaims, with a voice far away from any warmth. Thuringwethil would never mind that, coldness never makes her flinch, coldness alone is not personal or intruding to her, but he made it with the tone of his voice. He wants to grind her down, make her flinch and buckle. She chuckles.

"I'm minus ninety degrees Celsius. I'm the icicle no one can chew." She ends the call. Thuringwethil revels in the fact that she can make her voice the coldest a person could hear in their life. She always makes sure they do, as the opportunity occurs again and again - nonsensically, she thinks, one would hope her reputation proceeds her thus far already. There's still much work ahead, she muses.

"I'm the unforeseen force that puts others to rest." The woman she was eyeing stands before her on the other side of the clothing rail. "One of the threats I like to give, a favorable introduction to you, I hope."

"Very." The corner of her mouth tugs upwards. "Thuringwethil," she introduces herself.

"Lúthien Tinuviel." The woman smiles in return.

_Old money_ , Thuringwethil thinks. Her mind races silently through her map of relations, trustful allies, known enemies and sleeper adversaries. 

Thuringwethil notices the suit she is wearing is the shade of a deep night.

"I divine that you are looking for something new and different."

"Well, you're not wrong. Are you?" Thuringwethil glides her eyes over the nearest collection of potential. A few feet away, between an array of lighter shades she notices another spot of darkness for her to investigate.

"Oh always. And it always ends up being something not unlike myself," she chuckles, and Thuringwethil feels pulled into an inside joke. Lúthien is making her part of her collection of special encounters, Thuringwethil surmises.

Lúthien mirrors her steps, and heads further with their conversation, straight into a specific direction.

"Would you like to plunge into the colorful collections?" 

"No, I'm loath." 

Lúthien leans her head. "There is more than the flashy new arrivals. What might be right for you is surely hidden somewhere. The whole rainbow is open to you."

"Well, I am mindfully limiting myself."

"To dark colors, I assume."

"To black, more specifically." Thuringwethil raises her arm to display her findings.

"But you do want to deviate from the usual blackness, don't you?," Lúthien teases.

"Hm. That obvious?"

"The preference or your aim?"

"Both, it seems."

"Quite right." 

Thuringwethil feels played. But she also feels like going along. _Humor me, Lúthien, I want to see more of you._

"Try other dark colors. You certainly got some playing field there," Lúthien goes on.

"I was looking for something new to practice anyhow."

"Would you like a partner or, well, a mentor for your start? I'll dress you in color." 

Doubt is shaping Thuringwethil's countenance. 

"Trust me, I'll get the right ones." 

"Is this your vocation?" Thuringwethil's posture loses all movement in subversion to statuesque anticipation. "You seem very energetic about it."

Lúthien misses a beat. "My pursuing of a profession is, well, not highly endorsed by my family, and the need for one has never arisen. Thus I have a lot of time on my hand, and the freedom to pursue any interest of mine."

"No need and no pressure? Sounds like a dream."

"In every dream home a heartache."

"The heartache is yours?" Thuringwethil doesn't let the opportunity slide to make it sound close to a statement.

"I admit, my heart ... aches."

"For what?" Thuringwethil sees no need to hide the intensity of her stare. Lúthien maintains a faraway look.

"More. Or simply for something. I believe, the feeling is not new to you." Lúthien's eyes snap back to Thuringwethil. 

_No, it's not, it never was_. Thuringwethil smiles in anticipation.

"However, you do seem better equipped at handling it, putting it to use," Lúthien continues.

_I might_ , Thuringwethil has to admit. Her own nature is handed to her by a silver tongue. She's impressed.

"It never truly feels like I am equipping, just being," Lúthien adds. 

_So open_. Thuringwethil senses she may have to look out for something - _or is this simply youth?_ Perhaps she herself has always felt old. But this longing seems to be owned by both. 

"Tell me, what prepares you. What makes you more than just being?"

Thuringwethil knows exactly what Lúthien means, and perhaps that's why she wants to be genuine. "Focus."

Lúthien looks at her, waiting - for more.

"Risk. A tad of not giving a fuck about rules."

"That's what I thought," Lúthien chuckles. As though she has just voluntarily become her partner in crime. "You seem quite accomplished in this."

"Experience," Thuringwethil explains amused. They are both pupil and mentor to each other. Indeed, partners in crime, Thuringwethil contemplates, or rather partners in the willingness to do it. Their crimes are not the same. "I had many to hone my talents." Courtesy of that infamous client and friend of hers and the countless opportunities he creates.

"I might be aware of some. Your name does ring a bell, I have to admit." Lúthien masterfully keeps her previous tone of voice.

"So does yours."

"I'm assuming from public sources covering ... different fields."

Thuringwethil almost laughs aloud at 'public sources'. She is sure that Lúthien has many not-so-public sources at her disposal as well, thanks to her relations. And one day, they might be in the same field. 

"Like you said, you are pursuing any interest of yours. You seem quite resourceful. I'm not surprised the least, I have to say." 

They are both keen spirits. Thuringwethil knows better than to let her guard down, but she is smitten nonetheless.

"Now, let me try to pursue a potential and hopefully soon-to-be interest of yours."

There is a certain air to Lúthien and it's either resembling a breeze or a gust coming out of a cleft which she controls. Thuringwethil is not sure whether it's to an abyss or the sky. 

Whatever her face emits seems to be enough for Lúthien, because next she's spun around and gone, and Thuringwethil is left to her wondering.

The top's silken fabric is held only by thin straps onto the hanger and potential shoulders. Noticing the color she almost proclaims the irony in light of Lúthien's endeavor in a less minimalist way.

"Grey."

"Lavender." 

Thuringwethil's eyes are set on it as if they're supposed to see something they cannot yet perceive.

"It's very faint." Lúthien turns the fabric to catch the light in the right angle. A fold of perfect lavender amidst the perceived grey. With every movement the lilac shifts faintly onto another spot. The effects of pigments are nothing new to Thuringwethil, but so far she has restrained her knowledge of them to shades of black.

"Honestly, I anticipate no one else is going to look so closely at it and see the lavender," Lúthien signifies, as if it is now a secret between the two, and presents her the item with one remaining finger under the curve of the hanger.

_Honestly_ , Thuringwethil thinks, _I cannot wait for there to be no one else._

Thuringwethil puts her knuckles against the top. There is a strange sensitivity to them, deviating from the one of her palms and the tips of her fingers. She spreads her fingers, making the fabric tense, creating ripples and waves that move away from her pressure and crash back against her skin. She would like to nestle them against something else than cold fabric for a change.

At work, with the lavender top and a pitch-black pantsuit she would look more casual than usual but on the other hand it would have the peculiar effect of her looking like she runs the place. It's the Melkor-effect, Thuringwethil thinks. She might exploit it one day. 

Thuringwethil puts a hand into the trouser's pocket and her weight onto one foot - a posture she doesn't usually assume. She ponders whether she's giving Lúthien a different picture of herself, a picture unlike herself - and whether she's thereby tinkering with Lúthien's mind a little.

"I think you found what I saw in it." Lúthien smiles, regarding her.

Lúthien returns with another prey in hand, blood red.

"Something to accompany your hands." 

The allusion to her work or the work of the company she keeps does not go over Thuringwethil's head - she is rather flattered. And the shade is remarkably beautiful. "I do love to look as if I'm on a hunt or just returned from one."

Thuringwethil glimpses Lúthien's chest heave. She assumes an irksome thought despite her proud demeanor.

"I own a fair bit of adventure myself."

"I would love to hear the stories," Thuringwethil replies quite honestly.

"I'll be sure to tell them once I've experienced them."

"Well well, what's that? Voicing your wishful thinking, or state of mind?"

"I call it my premonitions."

Lúthien eyes her newest discovery. "You should get a suit in this color." 

"To find a suit in the exact color one wants is always rare." Lúthien seems to have found it, though, Thuringwethil thinks, looking at the deep dark blue of the suit.

"Well, I found it," counters Lúthien.

Thuringwethil cocks her head, hiding the buildup of a prideful smile.

Lúthien's countenance shifts to reveal what Thuringwethil's is hiding. "You will, too."

"Another of your premonitions?" 

Lúthien chuckles in response and pointedly hands over the blouse. 

Premonition or not, Thuringwethil wants to walk in blood and be seen in it.

"Well then. I'd better try this on now. One blood soaked thing at a time." Thuringwethil returns to the cabin.

"A mantra at work?" Lúthien remains on the other side of the curtain, decidedly maintaining the conversation.

"A theoretical one, at least." Thuringwethil's memory swiftly runs over the simultaneous messes at work she had to remedy as she slides into the blouse.

"It seems the world is rather set on the requirement of such methods," Lúthien stirs outside, sounding contemplative.

"You don't need to fret. You seem fairly save and secluded." Thuringethil steps out, handing her payback for Lúthien's previous allusion. 

"On the contrary." Lúthien turns towards her. "I'm sure I could handle quite a few." Her eyes glide over the new blouse and back to Thuringewethil. "You included."

"You cannot possibly be flirting with me," Thuringwethil responds, unsure how threatening or teasing she herself should sound. 

"Would that be so daring?"

Thuringwethil sets her eyes to the closest mirror. Dark cinnabar glides on her, folds catching light run down like rivers, and under applied pressure the warmth of the fabric becomes indistinguishable from her own. She turns her hand away, takes a deep inhale, and observes the movements. This lingering is a waist of time, but she remains nonetheless, enjoying it for the moment. Thuringwethil has come for suits, she did not see herself now covered in silk, and in more color than she anticipated. But she pictures herself head to toe in shining dark red, encompassed by the blue of the night sky, or encompassing it in return. She imagines a pair of hands, other than hers, being the cause of motion and heat.

Thuringwethil gives herself a last measurement. She looks ready for evening wine. 

Outside the last sunshine of the day and the starting chill of the evening compete with their sensations. A pleasant aching and weariness sets into Thuringwethil's muscles, telling her it's time to get out of these shoes, put her feet up and make a mental note of her work load for the next day, a glass of wine in hand. 

"I find our conversations way too animated to leave it at that," Lúthien takes a brisk inhale. "Come with me. We can continue our musing over suits, with wine in hand, and vinyl playing."

Thuringwethil's inside is aflame, threatening to overthrow the coolness of her mind. There is no need for herself to be overt, Lúthien already is. No need to open up, Lúthien already sees.

Thuringwethil takes a leisurely step towards her to mark her words. "I'd love that." And she pushes the comfort of routine away. 

The sound of another pair of heels accompanies the one of her own and reinforces her resolve. 

Lúthien turns around and puts the sun at her back. Thuringwethil sees her figure brightened and her hair rippling out through the breeze. As Lúthien leads the way, she feels a small replica of the sunset flare up inside herself.

The rooms are filled with more shadow than light. The last muted rays still shine through the shutters, marking their retreat from the cozy darkness enveloping more and more.

Lúthien pointedly walks to various corners, switching on lamps producing a limited radius of warm light.

Furniture and decoration show expense to be of no issue, though all seem to be handpicked and ordered by personal taste and the quirks that come with it. Items of antique oddity and modern simplicity coexist side by side. Thuringwethil perceives a prevalent forest theme, and receives another glimpse into Lúthien.

A cupboard bar is opened and Lúthien, with wine and glasses in hand, wordlessly insists for the furthest corner by the windows, a couch of flat cushions and delicate legs, one end now illuminated by a Tiffany lamp, the last to be turned on.

Their tongues taste red, becoming more numb and nimble with each sip. Lúthien crosses her legs and begins to free her feet, insisting Thuringwethil do the same. One shoe after the other thuds on the ground as they carefully balance their wineglasses. Thuringwethil's feet sigh at their regained flexibility and the coolness of the ground. Lúthien provides the sound as she leans back.

Lúthien's leg bobs gently back and forth. The fabric of her suit entices Thuringwethil. There is an unevenness to the shimmer, sort of crushed and muted. Smooth or coarse, there was no telling. No telling without touching.

Thuringwethil's eyes fall on the precise and sharp front crease of the trousers. Her fingertips tingle at the thought of putting them against it - on the thigh, then all the way down to the bottom, until they return to the tense fabric high up, and then, higher still. Thuringwethil suspects that she is starting to lose herself, and that Lúthien is close to notice.

"Tell me more about your colors," Thuringwethil inquires, putting the glass to her lips. 

Lúthien cocks an eyebrow. "My colors?"

"Your wardrobe." _If more is too personal_ , Thuringwethil adds in mind. _For now._

Lúthien bends closer to her and holds her eyes locked. "I look up to the sky and I want its colors. I look at the sea and I want to wear it. I look into the night and I want to be it." 

"You want everything, I conclude."

"And you want it, too."

Whether it's the wine or sympathy, Thuringwethil admits, "I too am insatiable."

Thuringwethil sees Lúthien's lust for life, her energy and aspirations. She sees it in her posture, in the tightness of her facial muscles, and in her eyes switching between a distant stare and narrow focus. It all seems so overt. And it always alludes to something more, something well hidden yet always present. And Lúthien reciprocates. Thuringwethil sees her gaze, masquerading as regard, or sometimes as a mere glance. She sees her eyes set, still and rigid, the glint behind them. Lúthien is looking right into her. 

A peculiar feeling creeps into Thuringwethil. Lúthien is trying to pry her open, anticipating her thoughts, her feelings, her wants. It's both threatening and intriguing. She has never been peeled open and she never will. Rather, it's like her walls are glass, thick and unbreakable, but still translucent. And Lúthien is shining a light through her, looking through the layers of glass. Thuringwethil hopes she is antique, colored, expensively blown or crafted, something for keen and skilled eyes. But how opaque did she think herself to be, to what degree was she in front of Lúthien.

Lúthien filled her with questions and doubts about herself, she challenged her with her very nature. 

"It's time to show me your progress of collecting a palette of the sea and sky."

"I might disappoint you. I am very particular." She gets off the coach and walks to another corner, her almost empty glass swaying carelessly by her side. "A retreat to my wardrobe should be accompanied by some sound, I say." 

The lid of an old looking vinyl player opens with a light creak, followed by the hollow sound of the inserted vinyl. And after the music begins at a satisfying volume Lúthien spins around to face her again.

Thuringwethil takes a last look at the delicate Tiffany lamp. Various shades of green and gold intertwine and divide within fluent black lines forming patterns of leaves and branches. Not how her own walls of glass would ever look - but she might have just glimpsed the ones of someone else.

Thuringwethil mindfully remembers the bottle of wine to transition with them. Leaving only their shoes behind, she stalks after the tapping sound of naked feet. The dark bedroom is pierced by the light on the other end, providing her an illuminated path, until Lúthien's wardrobe hits her with colors of a pale dawn and morning mist.

Lúthien left her blazer, and the light now falls on her bare shoulders. This image of velvet in the blue of cornflowers, thin and light and most definitely soft, with her formal linear pants, conveys cutting edges of aesthetic. Glimpsing the deep neckline, Thuringwethil can't contain her thoughts of whether she'd rather feel velvet or skin. Her eyes set on the juncture. 

Darkness creeps around Thuringwethil, streaks of moving car light glide over her face, her patient stature alike a queen amidst her shadows. Lúthien illuminated, now dressed in velvet.

"How fitting. The color of a stain left by red wine." Lúthien spun in faded purple, both matt and shining whenever the fabric pleased.

"You know your ropes."

"I've seen quite a lot." 

"I can show you more."

Lúthien has invited her into her mind, and Thuringwethil is sucked in.

"Why are you telling me all this?"

"I guess I just want to share my knowledge. Leave something of me in someone else. The opportunities present themselves awfully rare." Lúthien looks both young and wise in this moment, like naivety crushed, or merely disappointed. There is no telling with Lúthien's face, she encompasses extremes and transforms them into ambiguity. Thuringwethil wants to take her enigmatic face into her hands and say _Yes, give me all of yourself._

The music stops, and it takes them a while to notice.

"I love the seventies. The singing of distant dreams and familiar sensations."

"It never gets old."

"You never stop relating to it."

"You never stop wanting it."

The music starts again.

A step. "Every step I take takes me closer to you." Another. "Do you like that?"

Thuringwethil does. She watches, observes. Her mind feels awfully quiet and restless at the same time.

_Don't say that you love me._

Lúthien progresses in steps and words. "I would love for you to like it." She sways, like leaves in the wind Thuringwethil herself cannot perceive, and it's all too awfully endearing.

_Just say that you want me._

"I don't like dancing. And if I do, I don't enjoy it long." Thuringwethil hates the concept of admitting to something, but the moment the words leave her mouth, she feels like she has done exactly that. But her voice does not reveal her memory of past embarrassments, the history of her coming to terms with certain quirks, or the presence of lingering awareness. She has mastered her dance of concealment a long time ago.

_Just say that you want me._

"That can be arranged." With inviting hands Lúthien closes the space between them. The pressure of a hand is on Thuringwethil's hip and another invites itself into the grip of one of her own hands. Thuringwethil suddenly hears the intensity of the last three-quarter of the song. The only part of any song (as long as it's structured like this one) to which she would endorse a dance.

Lúthien twirls with her, makes her take a step back, swings with her to one side, then into another direction. 

And then they halt abruptly. Thuringwethil can feel the skirt complete its following movement around her knees. 

"You are a dancer," Thuringwethil acknowledges.

"But I'm no torturer," Lúthien retorts. "I can very well dance on my own if my party is averse to join me. You might like to watch me one day." Lúthien gives a promising smile which spans over her whole face before her eyes widen abruptly to add, in played spontaneous excitement, "Occasionally I sing, along my dancing." 

Thurinwethil sees Lúthien pleased with her strategic display of her talents, and she loves to be the audience. 

Lúthien's eyes immediately and effortlessly fixate on Thuringwethil's. She has become a well known gaze, a well known voice, a well known presence.

"I sensed you. I stood there with my fingers sliding down a pair of lapels, and they twitched as if someone demanded their attention." 

Lúthien puts her hands onto Thuringwethil's blazer.

Thuringwethil's hand glides over the blouse on Lúthien's arm, feeling every fold. Down at its edge, the transition to skin makes her quiver. She glides her fingers down, feeling the hair on her arm, its form, every smoothness and roughness in their path. They reach her wrist, and eventually her hand, where they remain.

Her cheek is close to hers. One nose is about to stroke the other. Eyelashes nearly flutter shut. Their hair stand on end and brush against the other. 

For each of them, after long nights of solitude, the odor of another lingers in the air again. And unspoken words tarry, vibrate right between them and in their blood. 

They have closed in on each other, and are now almost motionless in their embracing dance and restless minds.

**Author's Note:**

> Visit me on [tumblr](https://junaril.tumblr.com/)


End file.
